Keep Moving

Last night, for the first time since the awful death of the sweet mare next-door, my partner chose to graze in his old favorite spot, which is near her grave, and which he'd shunned since her last valiant battle on earth.

At first, he approached the edge of the area, bordered by a drainage ditch, and stood a long while, nostrils flaring, head up, ears at attention, as if searching out a suspected predator.
He took a tentative step forward and searched some more.
Then he slowly crossed the ditch and stood in the tall grass, and searched once more.
At last, he reached down, snipped off a sampling of grass, chewed it slowly.
After a moment, he lowered his head and set about transforming the grass into horse.

He must have noted my expression, because he deigned to explain it to me.
"She's gone, Jack," he said. "And there's nothing I can do about it. I won't forget her. But there's nothing to do now but keep moving."

It reminded me of a similar conversation I'd once had with a D-Day veteran. Caught in a frenzy of enemy fire buzzing around him like a sandstorm of angry hornets, he'd seen friends fall, too.
But there was nothing to do but keep moving, get off the beach. To falter would only mean dying with them; nothing he could do could save them. But if he survived, there would eventually come a moment of quiet and he would take the time then to remember, to grieve.

I mentioned it to my partner and he nodded sagely.
"What you have to understand, Jack," he said softly, "is that every day is D-Day."

He's a wise old horse.


sj